


turn me on, hear me speak

by zozo



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: Episode Tag, F/F, Femslash, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-14
Updated: 2006-08-30
Packaged: 2019-11-15 15:35:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18076139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zozo/pseuds/zozo
Summary: He was very nearly perfect, Mac thinks. Cute and fun and, you know, not Veronica Mars, andthathad to be healthy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set immediately following Episode 2x17.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first VM fic, ever. My first femslash, ever. Heaping wheelbarrows of thanks to [copperbadge](https://archiveofourown.org/users/copperbadge/pseuds/copperbadge) for cheerleading and beta-reading and putting up with HEY SAM SO ABOUT MY STORY twenty times a night.

_It's not fair,_ thinks Mac. _I just wanted something normal. Maybe a little more than normal._

She liked Cassidy, she really did. He was funny and sweet and smart, and even the fact that his brother was the biggest dick—oh, ha ha—at Neptune and his weekly allowance could have bought a rack of quad-core G5s didn't overshadow any of it. He was a great guy, he treated her well, and he was cute. He was _very_ cute.

But a girl has needs, you know? She'd never had a boyfriend before, never even really properly kissed anyone before him, and—well, her fingers and the fruits of BitTorrent were getting a little old. Mac was more than ready to cut up her V-card, but she had to go and push him too hard and now he's gone off under a black cloud and Mac's still here, confused and embarrassed and stung and alone.

He was very nearly perfect, Mac thinks. Cute and fun and, you know, not Veronica Mars, and _that_ had to be healthy. Not that he was a _replacement_ for Veronica; God, no. No, no, no.

It was nice, though, to be hung up on someone else for a change. It's been Veronica since the first time Mac saw her, since the day Veronica broke into her old car. The look of instant understanding and admiration on Veronica's face when she saw Mac's _new_ car is burned into Mac's memory; she's spent the past year and then some trying to get Veronica to look at her like that again.

She probably thinks Mac was so awkward asking for advice because Mac's not used to the whole dating thing, but that's not it at all. It's that, as much as she liked him, it took Mac a week of holding Cassidy's hand before it stopped feeling like cheating on Veronica. It was ridiculous, and she knew it, and eventually she got used to short, spiky hair and peachfuzz stubble and goddamnit, she liked it. And now it's gone because Mac couldn't keep her damn mouth shut, had to rush things, had to talk to Veronica, had to keep pushing him into—into what? Second base?

She stands up, leaves her lunch tray where it is—she swears to herself she'll never eat tater tots again—and heads for the parking lot. Halfway home she remembers her first real kiss with Cassidy and she has to pull over to cry. When the memory turns into a fantasy about Veronica Mars, she cries even harder.

* * *

The demolition is over, has given way to a rather dry documentary on the history of Shark Stadium, and though her dad is watching with rapt interest, Veronica is done for the night. She makes a pot of black walnut and ginger tea and takes it back to her room, changing into her pyjamas while it steeps. The doorbell rings just as she's skimming off her t-shirt; whoever's at the front door is speaking too softly to hear, but her dad calls her name and she pokes her head out of her room to see Mac standing just inside, looking like hell. Veronica beckons with a bare arm, and Mac starts down the hallway with a grateful look on her face.

Even her dad must've noticed Mac's state: Veronica half-expected either a wisecrack about keeping the computer felonies to a minimum or a reminder that it's a school night, but he just nods at Mac, glances at Veronica, and sits back down on the couch. _I owe you one, Dad._

Mac ducks into her room and closes the door. She sees Veronica in flannel pants and a sports bra and looks flustered for a second—she actually blushes as Veronica pulls on a tank top. "Sorry, Mac. Didn't mean to flash you, there."

Mac opens and closes her mouth a few times like a fish and Veronica's curiosity redoubles. "Hey. What's up?" Mac looks at her feet, and back at Veronica, and at her feet again, and finally speaks in what's almost a whisper.

"Cassidy broke up with me."

" _What_? But you two—" Mac looks up, tears brimming in her eyes, and Veronica stops and carefully extracts the foot from her mouth. "C'mon. Sit down." She leads Mac to the bed; the other girl follows like a zombie. She doesn't sit until Veronica tugs on her arm, and when Veronica takes her hand, she looks at it like she's dreaming.

"What happened? Was it—what we talked about earlier?" Mac bites her lip and nods, and Veronica makes a mental note to introduce Cassidy Casablancas's crotch to her best pair of boots. Use 'em or lose 'em, Beav. "Did he say why?"

"I don't know. It didn't make any sense. One minute we were just joking and the next—I don't know what I did, Veronica."

"Hey." Veronica puts her unoccupied hand under Mac's chin and tilts her head up; she can feel Mac shudder a little and amends "Beaver's ribs" to her boots' social calendar. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"He didn't like that I talked to you about it. I just didn't know what to do! I thought you'd know—"

"'Cause I'm worldly."

Mac sniffs and looks away. "Because you always know what to do."

Veronica thinks of Weevil and Thumper, Duncan and Logan, Lilly and Meg. "I really don't, you know. I just wing it."

A gentle rap on the door. "Veronica, I'm going to bed. Lock up, all right?"

"Sure thing, Dad."

Mac looks lost. She won't make eye contact, the hand in Veronica's is limp, and she looks like she's about to chew through her lower lip. Veronica can track a bail jumper in her sleep, but comforting a friend? Way out of her league. She squeezes Mac's hand, feels it tremble a little before she squeezes back. Impulsively, she scoots over and puts her arm around the other girl, pulling her into half a hug. Mac is silent, and Veronica lets her be, hoping the physical contact will stand in for the words she doesn't know.

* * *

_This is stupid,_ Mac tells herself, narrowing her eyes against the lights of the oncoming traffic. _Your boyfriend dumps you and you head straight for your unrequited crush? This is _so_ going to end well._

"Come on," she says out loud. "What am I going to do? Throw myself at Veronica Mars?" Realizing she's not only talking to herself, now, but _answering_ herself, Mac closes her mouth, a blush spreading up her cheeks. _I am _not_ going to—jump all over her just because I'm—because I've been—I'm not such a mess that—_ She instinctively looks to the rear-view mirror, meeting her own eyes: red, puffy, but at least clear of smudged makeup. Cassidy liked her experiments with eyeliner; he said they made her look—

_Dammit, Mac. Stop already._

No sooner have those thoughts left her mind than another, even more disturbing set take their place: _Veronica_ in smudged makeup, eyeshadow smeared, mascara running, lipgloss on her chin—not from crying, but from—

 _This _is_ stupid._ Mac gives her head a shake, reminds herself that Veronica is 1) straight, and 2) probably still mooning over Logan Echolls, there being no accounting for taste. _And even if she weren't, do you suppose you'd even be her type?_

_I didn't suppose I'd be Cassidy's type._

_Maybe you weren't._

Mac swallows another sob and very carefully pulls into the visitor parking of Veronica's apartment complex. She hopes that Veronica hasn't gone to bed, won't be busy, won't mind just talking for a while, won't mind helping Mac figure this out. Her fingers are actually crossed as she walks up to the door, and she lets out a sigh of relief when she sees the flickering light of a television through the frosted glass. She pushes the doorbell too tentatively; it doesn't ring. She pushes it again, trying not to cringe, trying not to cry, trying not to feel like an imposition, and suddenly she's looking into the face of Keith Mars, who looks surprised to see her. And why wouldn't he be?

"Mac," he says, and she nods. What to say? He looks at her, and under his searching gaze she realizes that Mr. Mars was born to be an investigator: he's looking at her like she'd look at a particularly intricate programming task, cataloguing every detail, calculating every variable. "Come in," he says more softly. "Veronica's in her room." Mac manages to whisper a thanks, and steps past him into the living room. Mr. Mars calls for Veronica, and Mac sees the door at the end of the hallway open, sees Veronica's head and arm, starts walking towards it, feels muscles she didn't even know she had been tensing relax.

And then she's in Veronica's room and oh no, oh my God, oh no, Veronica is in her bra—in her _bra_!—and Mac is trying desperately to tear her eyes away from the sight of white cotton stretched tight over—oh. She's had dreams that started like this. Minus the scratchy eyes and the lump in her throat, of course. She can see right through to—Veronica finally clues in and pulls on a shirt, to Mac's simultaneous relief and disappointment, and her heart starts to catch up on the beats it skipped.

Mac hears Veronica asking what's up as though from a distance, hears herself answer through the same haze. It's like a dream; not one of _those_ dreams, not now that Veronica's at least half-dressed, but everything seems slowed-down and unreal and she can't make herself look Veronica in the face. Veronica lifts her chin and Mac feels a shock go through her, and before she can stop herself she blurts out that Cassidy reacted worst to the news that Mac had talked to Veronica about—about whatever the hell—and instantly she panics: what if Veronica thinks she's blaming her? She's not; Mac came to _her_ for advice; it's not Veronica's fault at all—

And now they're talking about it, sort of, and Veronica's holding her hand, and Mac's trying not to fall apart into a sloppy mess at the same time she's trying not to think about the fact that she's on Veronica Mars's bed with Veronica Mars herself who's wearing nothing but pyjamas and a concerned look on her face. And _then_ Veronica's arm is around her, and there's too much not to think about, and Mac has never been more confused in her life. Biting her lip isn't working anymore and she finally breaks down, crying so hard she doesn't even realize her face is against a very pale, very smooth shoulder.

* * *

Mac has been crying on and off, clutching at and resting against Veronica in turns. She seems to have got it out of her system, Veronica thinks, and wishes for what's at least the seventeenth time that this was a problem that could be solved with a little ingenious rule-breaking. Breaking a few things on Beaver's person would be a nice start—she could run him over with her car, maybe—but Mac's so sweet that any kind of revenge would probably be more for Veronica's benefit, anyway, and now's no time to be selfish.

Mac's body is warm next to hers, head heavy on her shoulder, red-streaked-brown hair tickling Veronica's ear and the side of her neck. "I'm sorry," says Veronica, because she doesn't know what else _to_ say.

"It's not your fault," Mac whispers.

"I'm still sorry," Veronica says.

"Thanks." Mac's voice hitches. She sounds small and sad and far away and Veronica's heart aches; she must've sounded like that after Logan. After Duncan. Maybe even after Lilly.

"Physical comfort's easy. No trick to it at all. Just as long as you don't need me to talk." She squeezes Mac's shoulder and can't help thinking of the night before, dancing with Logan. It felt good just to be _close_ to someone, circumstances be damned. Tonight's circumstances are no better, but Veronica doesn't mind having Mac here, right next to her; she's enjoying the human contact. And Mac smells good.

(She _what_?)

"Still." Mac lifts her head and turns halfway so she's facing Veronica. "I appreciate this. You'd probably be asleep right now if it weren't for me."

Veronica shrugs. "I can sleep when I'm dead," she quips. Lightening the mood couldn't hurt, and changing the mental subject away from wholly inappropriate thoughts here sounds like a good plan. "Lord knows I owe you a few sleepless nights." _Oh, no fucking _way_ did I just say that. Did it go over her head? Please let it have gone over her head._

Mac smiles, which Veronica is glad to see for several reasons, and reaches for her hand. When she squeezes it, Veronica feels her heart actually _flutter_.

 _What the hell? This is _Mac_ , for God's sake. Sweet, innocent, emotionally vulnerable, very _female_ Mac._ Veronica mentally curses herself. _Save the same-sex experimenting for college, dammit!_ This hot-and-cold bullshit Logan's been pulling is obviously affecting her; she vows to take Weevil's fifty bucks and buy a very quiet vibrator.

"Veronica?" Mac's gone from a smile to a furrowed brow. "You okay?"

"Yeah, Mac," Veronica forces out. "I'm fine. Just, you know. Worried about you."

"I'll be all right," Mac says, and smiles the little self-deprecating smile Veronica is sure endeared her to stupid, stupid Cassidy in the first place. "Thanks for the shoulder."

"You're leaving?" Veronica realizes she still has Mac's hand in hers. She thinks she maybe ought to let go. She doesn't.

"Well, it's getting late. I don't want your dad to—"

"Bah. He sleeps like the dead. Besides, better you in here at 1 a.m. than Logan." Veronica quirks an eyebrow. "Or Weevil." Mac laughs out loud—it lights up her face—and she goes to push a lock of hair back, but Veronica's hand is, somehow, already there. Their fingers brush, and it's weird, weirder than holding hands, and it's intense, and it's exciting. Veronica suddenly notes that her mouth is much drier than it was.

* * *

Veronica's hand is in Mac's hair. Veronica's hand is in Mac's _hair_. Mac's hand is on Veronica's, which is in her hair, and Mac is wondering if she's dreaming, because she's had dreams like _this_ , too, and she can't stop staring at Veronica's mouth. She doesn't dare move her eyes, because she'll either end up meeting Veronica's, which is a terrifying thought right now, or staring at Veronica's breasts, which, as it turns out, kind of show right through a white sports bra. You learn something new every day, Mac thinks a little hysterically, and all it took was getting dumped out of the blue to learn that Veronica has—

"Stay," says Veronica, and Mac jumps to about nine different conclusions before deciding a "huh?" might be in order, just for clarity's sake. "Stay over," says Veronica. "It's too late for you to drive home. Crash here, if you want. Or we can talk more. Or...." She trails off, and her hand? _Still in Mac's hair._ Mac tears her eyes away from Veronica's lips and looks her friend in the eyes, and wishes like hell she had just a little of Keith Mars's innate skill, because she can't read the other girl at all.

"Veronica," Mac says at last, in her meekest, smallest voice, and Veronica looks as though she's coming back to herself from somewhere far away. She moves her hand a little, and Mac presses on it just enough to keep it where it is. "Are—" The bottom drops out of her stomach, but she keeps going, because pushing pushed Cassidy away but Veronica was the one who told her to push and she wants this; she's wanted this since a blonde a hundred miles out of her league Slim-Jimmed into her piece-of-shit car and turned her life upside down. "Are you going to kiss me?"

Veronica looks dazed for a second. And then she licks her lips and Mac feels a thrill go from the pit of her stomach straight south. She speaks, and Mac has never heard her bold, bad-ass friend sound so tentative: "Do you want me to?"

* * *

Veronica Mars is dreaming. She must be. She is sitting on her bed with her hands in _Cindy Mackenzie's_ hair and an undeniable warmth coiling in her lap, watching Mac bite her lower lip, looking at the streaks of dried tears on her face, her entire body tense and tingling and, in the back of her mind, the sound of Lilly Kane laughing.

Contrary to bathroom-stall graffiti of the time, Veronica and Lilly had kissed exactly once, in the back of that limo in Veronica's sophomore year. They were drunk on champagne and the thrill of the night, the thrill of rule-breaking, of making their boyfriends uncomfortable for entirely separate reasons. Lilly was as heterosexual as they come, and it never occurred to Veronica that she herself was anything but.

Though—one night last summer, finishing in the shower what Logan had started in his car, she'd accidentally thought of Meg Manning just as she was coming. The image of thick blonde curls nestled between her thighs just popped into her head; the unexpected result nearly knocked her off her feet. She'd chalked it up to novelty and hadn't thought of it since, but in light of this recent development she was beginning to reconsider. She'd never had any untoward thoughts about Meg before or after that, never had a crush on her or any other girl. In retrospect, a lot of the banter between her and Mac could definitely have looked like flirting, but—

Mac. Veronica's mind is racing at a hundred miles an hour trying to sort this out and Mac is looking at her with—with what? Expectation? Excitement? Anxiety? Her eyes are boring right into Veronica's, her hair is soft under Veronica's hand, she _does_ smell good—kind of like cherries—and Veronica's always thought she was pretty, much prettier than, say, Madison Sinclair— 

_This is insane,_ she thinks. _Am I seriously—_

Mac says her name and Veronica snaps out of it, more or less. Without thinking, she shifts her right hand (the one in Mac's hair, and gosh, that's an awfully intimate thing to be doing), starts to pull away, maybe, but Mac holds it in place. Veronica's heart _flutters_ again— _get a grip, Mars!_ —and the look in Mac's eyes gets even more focused and Veronica can't deny it: she's turned on. Kind of a lot.

"Are you going to kiss me?" Mac asks, and Veronica thinks _You're goddamned right I am,_ but wait—what if this is just a misunderstanding? What if she's just projecting her frustration and confusion onto Mac, channelling her ineffectual empathy into something else? What if the answer is _Too bad, you can't_? She _wants_ to kiss Mac. She doesn't know why, and she's not even sure it would be a good idea, but Mac is pretty and her hair is soft and mark your calendars, folks: Veronica Mars is actually scared.

"Do—do you want me to?"

* * *

Mac nods a very small nod, sees the look in Veronica's eyes, and before she can chicken out, she leans—almost _lunges_ —forward and presses her lips against Veronica's, which are smooth and taste like raspberry lip gloss and to Mac's complete lack of surprise, Veronica is a very good kisser. A voice inside her head—she's pretty sure it's her id—is saying _yes yes yes finally yes,_ but another—that would be her superego—is shouting _stop stop stop it stop it stop,_ and when Veronica steps up the kiss a little, adjusting her lips on Mac's and opening them just slightly, Mac pulls away, gasping.

Veronica looks horrified. "Jesus, Mac. Jesus, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—I mean, I thought you—I shouldn't have—" She's babbling, and Mac isn't sure how to stop her, has never been sure how to stop Veronica Mars, has never really wanted to.

"Veronica, seriously," says Mac. She's smiling; she can't help it. "It's fine. I—that was—" She giggles. She actually giggles. "That was really nice."

And Veronica Mars, terror of Neptune High, almost _pouts_. Mac can hardly believe her eyes. "Then why did you stop?"

"I just—this is a pretty big deal for me, is all." Veronica looks confused. "I've—" _Bite the bullet, Mac._ "I've wanted to do this for a really long time."

"Kiss me?"

Mac feels the flush creep up her cheeks, knows Veronica can see it, watches the other girl's face reflect astonishment. "Maybe—maybe a little more than just that. But—I don't want to—you know, I don't want you to think you _have_ to, just because—"

Veronica is clearly stunned. Her hair is falling out of its ponytail, there are spots of colour high on her cheeks, there is a glossy smudge beside her open mouth. Mac looks aside for a second, embarrassed, and sees the imprint of Veronica's nipples through her tank top; she nearly chokes, and looks up, right into Veronica's eyes, and Mac feels a rush of _want_ unlike anything she's ever felt before; her heart's never beat so hard in her life and she's sure the _thump thump thump_ can be heard from the highway, if not further.

"Mac," says Veronica, and Mac has never heard her name spoken like this, never heard Veronica speak like this, so low in her throat. "Mac, I have no idea what I'm doing. Okay?"

Mac says "O—", and Veronica moves towards her so smoothly she almost looks liquid, and her arms go around Mac's neck, and then her tongue is in Mac's mouth and her breasts with their hard (and pink, and just so, and Mac thanks God for white bras because she has been wondering for _ever_ ) nipples are pressing into Mac's own, and then Mac is flat on her back with Veronica above her and her hands in _Veronica's_ hair for a nice change of pace, and then Veronica very gently takes Mac's lower lip between her teeth and Mac only thought she was lost before.

* * *

_This is different,_ Veronica thinks. _This is definitely different. _Good_ —oh wow—but yeah. New._

Mac's nose, for one thing. It's a girl's nose, little, much easier to manoeuvre around than, say, Logan's. Her lips are softer than soft, softer than any boy's, and the little sounds she's making—well. Those are _very_ new.

She kisses the corner of Mac's mouth, and then her cheek, and then the line of her jaw, and then right under her ear—the cherries smell is coming from her hair, so it must be her shampoo—and she lets go of Mac's hand and trails up the other girl's hip, up her waist, and stops just below her breast. "Is this okay?" she mumbles, breathing hard, wondering if Mac can feel her shaking. The response is a whimper, but it sounds like an assenting whimper, and Veronica figures she's already more than committed to this.

Veronica briefly considers that, right now, most girls would probably be caught up in _Does this mean I'm gay?_ and _But I like boys!_ and other counter-productive trains of thought. Veronica, not so much: Mac's here, and interested, and nominal heterosexuality be damned, Veronica's interested, too. _Carpe diem_ —or in this case, she supposes, _carpe mammas._ She can sort out her Myspace profile later.

As a rule, Veronica doesn't have much experience with breasts. It's a joke with her, that she can still buy training bras—she's got a particularly fetching one with Winnie-the-Pooh on it that no-one's ever seen, and she's turned down the advances of two boyfriends on three occasions to keep it that way—and she doesn't even mind, really: any bigger and they'd just get in her way. Mac's breasts are not like Veronica's, and right now Veronica is quite enjoying exploring all the points of difference.

But that's just with one hand. The other is clutching Mac's, while her mouth is firmly attached to Mac's earlobe, free of earring and, dammit, _right there_ —how's a girl supposed to resist? Mac is occupied arching her back into Veronica's ministrations and trying not to make too much noise, which Veronica appreciates, and it's all almost too sexy to stand. _Why the hell did I never do this before?_ Veronica thinks. _Lilly would have gone for this in a second._

But Lilly's not important right now, Mac is, and in Veronica's mind part of this whole thing is still consoling her about Beaver. _Time to get down to that._

* * *

Mac's mind is blank. Blown. Low-level formatted and overwritten with zeros. She's lying on her back, Veronica doing something pretty wonderful to her left breast and something absolutely amazing to her right ear, and she figures it's the least she can do not to wake up Mr. Mars with moaning and/or shouts of triumphant pleasure, inclined as she is towards both.

And then she has to redefine "blank" and "blown" and "low-level format" as Veronica _swings her leg over Mac's body and straddles her_ , and this is, by leaps and bounds, the most aroused Mac has ever been in her entire life.

"Mac" is not a name you can purr, exactly, but Veronica manages it. "Mac," she purrs, licking her lips (oh god) and—oh god oh god oh _god_ — _rolling_ her _hips_ , and why did she have to wear _jeans_ today and Veronica looks her up and down with what looks like wonder, and lust, and Mac is _so close_ if Veronica would just move right—right—

She comes fully-clothed, teeth clamped tight, pressing herself up into Veronica, holding her throat closed against a scream. Her eyes roll back in her head and her toes curl— _oh, hey, that really happens_ —and the entire world is reduced to the pressure between her legs, around her hips, in her belly.

Her orgasm ends suddenly, almost violently, and when she manages to open her eyes (she closed them?) she sees Veronica, still straddling her, looking down with an expression on her face like shock. "Mac?" she says, and the purr is gone and she sounds meek and out of her element, which Mac guesses she is. "Mac, did you just—" Mac nods. "Did I—?" Mac nods again.

Veronica smiles, and then grins, and actually tosses her hair a little. Mac thinks that she looks like the cat that ate the canary—and then she thinks that she might've chosen a slightly different idiom, and then she's not thinking about idioms at all because Veronica's rolling her hips and now that the edge is off it's an entirely different kind of flip her stomach does. _Veronica Mars just got me off._

"So," says Veronica, pulling the tie out of her hair and shaking out her dirty-blonde mane. "I seem to recall you requesting some under-the-bra action?" She very, very slowly bites her lower lip and runs her hands up from Mac's belt, up her stomach, over her breasts, over her shoulders, down her arms, and she takes Mac's hands in hers, brings them up to her mouth, kisses them. "We do aim to please."

Mac feels dizzy. It's like there are two Veronicas: the nervous and unsure one, careful and in over her head—how Mac's feeling about this whole thing, a little—and "normal" Veronica, sassy and devil-may-care, flipping her ponytail and getting Mac off almost effortlessly. It's daunting, a little, but exciting, and since the badass Veronica is the only one Mac usually ever sees, it's nice to see the vulnerable side of her here.

Having them both is kind of incredibly hot.

It's confident-and-in-charge Veronica who unzips Mac's hoodie and runs her fingers along the thin, thin t-shirt she's wearing under it. Mac sits up a little—as much as she can, considering—to disengage herself from the sleeves, and while she's up, Veronica grabs the bottom of her t-shirt and tugs, and Mac falls back in just her bra, feeling cold and exposed and too pale and too soft.

* * *

Veronica wonders if it's proper to be so proud of herself. There was a certain sense of— _accomplishment_ , the first time she managed to get Logan off, but that was using her hands, and she'd been teasing him all day; it was almost too easy. With Mac? Veronica hardly had to _touch_ her. _I wonder if I should have put this on my college applications. I'd have been a shoo-in for a handful of sororities, at least._

Of course, the other side of getting Mac off while all her clothes are still on is that _her clothes are still on_ , and though an hour ago this would have been normal, now it's kind of a problem. And Veronica Mars, above all, is a problem-solver.

She just needs to get cockier to get past this, because this is a big deal for her, too—even just by virtue of being new—and she _doesn't_ know what she's doing, and even though she's pretty sure she's doing it right, she wants this to be good, wants it to be good for Mac.

And so Veronica puts on her very best self-confident face, lets every ounce of her arousal come through in her voice, nearly _moans_ Mac's name, and takes the plunge:

"I seem to recall you requesting some under-the-bra action?" Mac's eyes light up; Veronica touches her then, all over, surprised, a little, at how much she's enjoying this, how much she's almost _craving_ more. "We aim to please," Veronica all-but-whispers, and it's true. She kisses Mac's hands and wants more, more, more; pulls the zipper down on the sweater Mac's wearing, feels the soft cotton of her t-shirt, imagines what the skin underneath must feel like, feels—wow—feels her _mouth water_. And she wants more.

It's a bit awkward, getting Mac half-undressed while Veronica's still pinning her down, but eventually the arms get untangled and the shirts end up in a pile on Veronica's floor and Mac falls back in just her bra, and for a second Veronica finds she can't breathe properly, and doesn't exactly want to.

She swallows hard. "Wow." _Very articulate, Mars._ "Just—wow." Mac beams at her, wriggles her shoulders, and Veronica's mind quickly and neatly and very completely derails.

Veronica has never been what one would call a connoisseur of the female form, not even in passing. Girls are girls: breasts, hips, waists, whatever. If she gives it some thought, she can usually sort out who's prettier than whom, but she'd rather examine Brad Pitt than Angelina Jolie, all things considered. But Mac, here, now, like this—still glowing from her orgasm, all curves and smooth skin and a shy little smile—Veronica wonders if this is the gear Wallace's mind runs in twenty-four hours a day, because now she gets it, understands the appeal. She could stare at Mac like this for hours, just drinking her in—but there's work to be done.

Mac's bra fastens in the front. There is clearly a God of First-Time Lesbian Encounters.

* * *

Mac's bra is off, gone—she bought it with Cassidy in mind: front-clasping, easy to use, like a hint, like a good-luck charm—somewhere on Veronica's floor, now, and now Veronica's fingers are tracing the outline of the breasts she's never been happy with, but she's sure happy with what Veronica is doing to them, touching them almost absently, a look of intense concentration on her face.

Veronica slides herself down Mac's legs, puts her hands on Mac's bare waist for just a second—the simple intimacy of it makes Mac's heart jump—and then they're rolling over and now _Veronica's_ under _Mac_ , and Mac is leaning down to kiss her and Veronica's hands are cupping her breasts and Mac draws in a breath through her teeth and shudders.

She slides her tongue into Veronica's mouth and Veronica moans and pushes her hips up into Mac's, pulls back enough to look into her eyes and repeat, like she needs to, like it matters: "I _really_ don't know what I'm doing," and maybe, Mac thinks, maybe vulnerable-Veronica is even more appealing than badass-Veronica.

Mac takes a trick from Veronica's playbook, drags her teeth along the other girl's lower lip, and Veronica whimpers; emboldened, Mac slides a hand up Veronica's ribcage and across one of _her_ breasts, feeling the nipple underneath the fabric, rolling it between her fingers, and now it's Veronica who's moaning and God, what a rush. _This is better than hacking._

Veronica squirms down, out of Mac's hand, away from Mac's lips, and there's a second of paranoia before she feels Veronica's mouth close around her left nipple and it is warm and wet and there's a buzzing in Mac's ears and _oh_ , those are Veronica's _nails_ tracing a line up her spine. Mac is tingling all over, and gasping, and can't decide whether to keep her eyes open or closed and she's propping herself up on her hands but her elbows are starting to shake.

She tries to say Veronica's name but all that comes out is something that sounds like "uh," and she kind of rolls off Veronica, ends up lying beside her, and Veronica hardly misses a beat, _licking_ up from Mac's chest to her throat, biting her neck, then kissing her, hard, hands framing her face and moaning right—into—her mouth.

They pull apart gasping, and Mac is sure to a mathematical certainty that her panties are soaked _right through_. "Jesus, Veronica," she says, and Veronica quirks an eyebrow and kisses the bridge of her nose.

Mac takes a second to catch her breath and then rolls up on her elbow. She tries to look sassy and devil-may-care, and isn't sure if she pulls it off, but she looks right into Veronica's eyes, smiling, and says, very softly: "Your turn."

Veronica blinks and then pulls her tank top off, revealing The Bra that may very well be Mac's dying thought. Mac grabs the sides and Veronica jumps, grins, twisting away: "Ticklish ribs. Careful." Mac smiles back and very, very carefully pulls The Bra up over Veronica's head, tosses it aside, and for a minute, all she can do is stare.

Before she realizes she's even speaking, Mac says "I am the luckiest girl alive." _God,_ she thinks immediately, _that sounds kind of desperate,_ but the look on Veronica's face—the _blush_ on Veronica's face—knocks that thought aside entirely. Mac leans over, plants a gentle, almost reverent kiss on the tip of one pink, just-so nipple, and Veronica shivers; she plants a slightly-less-gentle kiss on the other, and Veronica groans deep in her throat.

Two minutes later Veronica is making quick little noises in the back of her throat and bucking her narrow hips and Mac is feeling proud enough to toss a ponytail or two herself.

* * *

_Pair of fast learners we are,_ Veronica thinks. Her lower body seems to have a mind of its own, twisting around in time to the movement of Mac's mouth, Mac's fingers—she has discovered the exact pressure to apply to Veronica's ticklish ribs that doesn't tickle them at all, but does something quite different and very excellent to those nerve endings. Veronica arches her back and presses her lips shut against what might have ended up being a yelp, and then one of Mac's hands is flat on her stomach, tracing her navel, and if she's about to do what Veronica thinks she's about to do—

With a considerable effort, Veronica lifts her head to look Mac in the eyes. She doesn't trust herself to talk, doesn't trust her voice not to break, but she looks at Mac's hand and then back up and nods, hoping and hoping they're on the same wavelength. She sees Mac swallow and take a deep breath, and then feels two very soft, very warm fingers dip under the waistband of her pyjamas, tentative as anything, and Veronica nods again and lies back on the bed, heart pounding in her ears.

She closes her eyes and feels Mac shift position, sliding up to get a better angle; she feels Mac's fingers slide lower, lower, almost—yes—there—and then they stop, and Veronica hears herself make a disappointed sound—much too much like a squeak—and then she's looking at Mac who looks apologetic and a little panicky: "Bad angle. I can't really—"

And then Mac looks nothing so much as a headlight-struck deer as Veronica hooks her thumbs into her pyjama bottoms, lifts her butt, and pulls them down, off, and somewhere across the room. _Crap, I broke her,_ Veronica thinks, and then _oh hey, I'm naked—and panting, and almost alarmingly wet. Veronica Mars: porn starlet._

She nudges Mac with her knee and shrugs a little, bravado draining away as goosebumps rise on her bare legs and she wishes she'd shaved them this morning. "Is this okay? Do you still—" Mac seems to almost fade in, blinking rapidly, then touching Veronica's knee, stroking up the inside of her thigh—Veronica twists towards the touch, her body on autopilot again—and then the tips of Mac's fingers are just barely resting on her, and then they're opening her, and then—and then—and then—

Mac's fingers are slow and careful, gentle, a little clumsy, almost; she knows where they go but not quite how to get them there. Not that Veronica's complaining: she wonders if Mac isn't just approaching this like another computer problem, guessing and checking, trial-and-erroring her way to her goal—and "fast learner" isn't even close; there is a _lot_ more trial than error going on.

And oh, oh hey, she's using _both_ hands now—not even Logan could figure that one out—and her fingers are smooth like imported fucking _silk_ —Veronica's breath catches, her hips jerk, head thrashes to one side, then the other—Mac's fingers are in her, and on her, and not really clumsy at all, no, and then she's kissing her, again, and her tongue is running up the roof of Veronica's mouth as two fingers run along— _a-ha, I _do_ have a G-spot, oh jesus oh jesus oh _Mac_ , oh, ah_ and Veronica's legs go rigid and she's breathing in the air Mac's breathing out and then Mac's mouth is next to her ear and whispering "Veronica...," like she's beckoning her, begging her, inviting her to—to—

—the smell of cherries, Mac's breath in her ear, soft soft soft skin, her heartbeat accelerating, _pressure_ —

* * *

Mac watches Veronica come, twisting around her fingers, whimpering—almost mewling, and God, _that's_ sexy—and very, very wet, and then it's over and Veronica is trembling and taking shallow breaths and looking absolutely wrung out, and Mac thinks _I did that_ and can't help but smile, and then Veronica has her by the back of her neck and is pulling her down into a hot, sticky embrace, kissing her neck and her ear and her hair and whispering incoherently.

Veronica _writhes_ under her, very naked, and then she looks at Mac with textbook bedroom eyes and says, even sultrier than before (how does she _do_ that?), "You're still wearing pants, Mac. I'm very disappointed in you."

Mac blushes to the roots of her hair and, despite what should have been fair warning, jumps a mile when Veronica starts unbuckling her belt. "Oh, yes," Veronica murmurs. "Fair is fair, Mac, and fair says you take _these_ —" she jerks Mac's jeans over her hips, down to her knees "—off, because I am _so_ not finished with you yet."

Dizzy all over again, Mac rolls onto her side and lets Veronica get her pants clear of her feet; Veronica snags her socks on the way down and Mac is down to her panties—which, judging from Veronica's raised eyebrows, look as wet as they feel.

Veronica slides her hands into them, ending _that_ line of thought, and cups Mac's ass, squeezing just a little. She laughs, "These, too," and later Mac will be a little disappointed that she doesn't remember Veronica taking them off; one second they're there, the next they're not, and now there are two naked bodies on this bed and Mac is way too turned on to feel self-conscious anymore.

"Now," says Veronica. "Let's see if I can manage this _half_ as well as you did," and insinuates her hand between Mac's legs, spreading her apart and brushing, feather-light, against Mac's clit, and Mac realizes sort of all-at-once that this is absolutely nothing like doing it herself, doesn't even compare; partly because Veronica's fingers are narrower than her own, a little rougher, a little colder, and of course the angle's different. For example—ohmygod—her wrists can't bend enough to do _that_ , and she thinks she's just plain not co-ordinated enough to manage the rhythm Veronica's got going between the finger on her clit and the two inside, the rhythm that makes Mac toss her head back and melt right down into the bed.

And then Veronica is scooting closer, squirming in, and Mac's a little too distracted to figure out what's going on until she feels something warm and wet against her thigh and realizes that Veronica is _rubbing up against her_ and this is very easily the hottest thing that has ever happened to Cynthia Alice Mackenzie: Veronica is grinding against her, jerking her hips, her mouth on Mac's and her fingers working, working, and Mac feels like she's leaning off the edge of a cliff, closes her eyes, sees stars.

She hears Veronica gasp and moan next to her and feels the fingers inside her spasm, feels Veronica's legs tense around her thigh, and then they collapse together, foreheads and fingertips touching, a tangle of limbs and bare skin and sweaty hair.

* * *

Veronica cranes her neck to see her alarm clock: 3:30 a.m. She rolls out of bed, feels Mac grasping at her back, smiles. Still a little light-headed, she extracts her pyjamas from the mess of clothes on the floor and grabs a handful of clothes from the closet. She pulls on a fresh set of panties—red, _daring; appropriate,_ she thinks—and tosses a pair of sweatpants and an old t-shirt at Mac. "You can sleep in these," she says.

Mac looks a little bewildered. Veronica smiles. "I said you could stay." Mac blinks at her. "C'mon, scoot over." Mac does, climbing into the makeshift sleepwear.

Veronica slides in close beside her, kisses her chin. "You okay?" Mac nods. "'Cause you seem a little freaked out."

"Freaked out? No, no. I'm just—I've never—are _you_ okay with this?"

Veronica kisses her, very softly, then grins. "Yup." She puts a finger over Mac's lips. "No buts. This was—this was perfect. This was— _you_ were exactly what I needed. I hope...." _I hope I took your mind off getting dumped? I hope I lived up to your crush on me? I hope you don't freak out in the morning and never speak to me again?_

Mac touches her face, her cheekbone, smooths back her hair. "Shh," she says. "Go to sleep."

Veronica closes her eyes, lays her head on Mac's shoulder, dreams of the two of them, driving down the PCH in Mac's Bug, the radio loud, the top down, holding hands, laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Archival note: This is the end of the smut. Two short and fluffy epilogue chapters follow.]


	2. Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She opens her eyes one at a time to a mass of brunette hair streaked red.

Veronica’s alarm goes off in the middle of a dream about—don’t hold her to this—chasing Duncan Kane through an abandoned military base, on the moon, riding a Lego skateboard. She thinks _Maybe I could use a therapist after all,_ and when her left arm doesn’t seem to work she clubs the shrill electric beeps into submission with her right.

She opens her eyes one at a time to a mass of brunette hair streaked red, and now the pressure on her left arm has some context. Memories—of Mac’s hands, fingers, mouth—spring to the front of her mind. _Oh, right_ , says an inner voice. _I had sex with Mac last night. _Good_ sex. Okay._

Veronica leans up and finds the cup of Mac’s ear. She touches the tip of her tongue to the pale earlobe and then whispers, as breathily as she can, “Good morning, sleepyhead.” Mac moans and shivers awake, eyes fluttering open and filling briefly with confusion.

“Oh,” says Mac. “ _Oh_.” She looks fearful for a second, so Veronica leans in and kisses her on the lips, soft and brief, and when she pulls back Mac is smiling shyly, which Veronica much prefers.

* * *

Keith Mars slept very well, thank you, and cracks two eggs into a bowl with a flourish. For the benefit of an invisible audience, he spins on his heel and tosses the shells into the trash, and takes a small bow.

He heard Veronica’s alarm go off about ten minutes ago; she should be walking in on his performance any minute now, and he knows how she hates to start the day without a vigorous eye-rolling.

The stove is heated, the cinnamon’s been beaten into the eggs, and still no Veronica. _She must’ve been up late with the Mackenzie girl_ —he spares a glance to the front door— _and she didn’t lock up, either._ He shakes his head and walks down the hallway.

Veronica’s door is ajar, so he pushes it open a little further and calls in: “Veronica, honey, you up? How many slices of French toast do you think....”

The kitchen window is open and the window is Veronica’s room is not, and the difference in air pressure pulls the door open farther than he meant it to go. Before his sentence has even trailed off, Keith Mars’s finely honed powers of perception have noted the following:

  1. Veronica is still in bed.
  2. Veronica is not alone in bed.
  3. Veronica is not-alone-in-bed with the Mackenzie girl.
  4. The girls are kissing.
  5. The Mackenzie girl is wearing Veronica’s pajama bottoms, and that’s all.



He’s turned on his heel and is halfway back to the kitchen by the time they shout in surprise, and he calls a “Excuse me” and a “Sorry” over his shoulder before returning to the stove, which hasn’t quite finished heating up. He stares at the frying pan for a minute, blinking.

Almost on its own, his hand reaches for the bag of bread and pulls out another two slices.


	3. Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Veronica all but tiptoes into the kitchen, stomach nervously flip-flopping.

Veronica all but tiptoes into the kitchen, stomach nervously flip-flopping, and sees her father pulling on his jacket with what appears to be a French-toast sandwich sticking out of his mouth. He takes it out with one hand as he grabs his briefcase with the other and brandishes it in a wave. “Sorry, sweetie, I gotta run; I’m going to San Diego to follow a lead on Woody. There’s breakfast warming in the oven, and I already fed Backup. Have a good day at school!”

She stands there, jaw open, as he walks out the front door. _He _did_ just walk in on me and Mac... didn’t he?_ She turns around to see Mac’s head poking around the corner, a look of terror on her face that turns to confusion when Veronica shrugs.

Mac blinks several times rapidly. “Didn’t he just walk in on you and me...?”

Veronica nods, tries to lighten the mood. “Maybe the sight of his baby girl writhing in lesbian lust fried his memory.” Mac visibly starts, and Veronica cringes. “Which isn’t to say—I mean, not that—we—you—ahh, do you want some breakfast? I think there’s French toast?”

Veronica can actually see the gears in Mac’s head shift, and feels a rush of relief when the other girl seems to move past her little faux pas. _Watch it with the l-word, Mars,_ she thinks, and then has to try not to smirk at the pun.

Veronica gets plates and icing sugar, and Mac fills two glasses with orange juice from the fridge, and they sit at the kitchen counter, eating in silence, sneaking furtive looks at each other and grinning. Veronica’s eyes keep drifting to the sight of Mac’s nipples, plain through her borrowed t-shirt; Mac catches her staring, turns bright red, then winks, _then_ runs her foot up the back of Veronica’s calf, and laughs when Veronica jumps.

Neither says a thing past “pass the syrup” until they’re washing up and Veronica insinuates herself between Mac and the kitchen counter, drawing Mac’s lower lip into her mouth and sucking off the light dusting of sugar still there. Mac trembles all over and makes a tiny whimper—Veronica feels something _zing_ in her lower abdomen at the sound—but then steps back, brow furrowed.

“Veronica,” she says slowly. “What—what are we doing?”

 _Shit._ Veronica tries disingenuousness: “Uh, the dishes?” Mac doesn’t smile. _Shit._

“No,” she says, and she looks serious. “This,” she gestures at her pyjamas, at the kitchen. “Last night, and now—” She licks her lips. “What is this?”

Veronica feels nervous _again_ and wonders if she’s losing her edge. She considers that losing her edge to Mac might not be the worst thing. “I don’t know,” she finally says. “I like it—but I don’t know what it is.”

Mac pauses for a second. “Are we—heh, are we ‘girlfriends’?” She smiles, but Veronica can see it’s forced, and feels her stomach turn over, not in an entirely-unpleasant way.

“Do, uh.” Stomach-flip. Swallow. Deep breath. “Do you want to be?”

“I, um. I.” Mac blinks some more.

“I mean, last night,” Veronica continues, and now this feels a little bit like going down the first hill on a roller-coaster, “I had a lot of fun last night. And I—I really like you. I mean, I think I _like_ you, which is weird and not-weird at the same time, and—”

Mac stops her. “What about Logan?”

Veronica stops, thinks _What _about_ Logan?_ She looks at Mac, at the morning sun on her face, at her hair, still a mess from sleep. Her eyes move, almost on their own, up and down Mac’s body, and she feels that _zing_ again. _To hell with Logan,_ she thinks. _I’m tired of waiting; I’m tired of games. Mac’s right here._

“To hell with Logan,” she says, and Mac’s eyes go wide. “I want _this_. I want to see—I want to see where this goes. With you. If you do,” she says quickly. She can hear her heart pounding in her ears.

Mac looks right at her. “I do,” she says. “Oh, I really, really do. You have no idea, you—” She stops, and grins, and giggles. “Veronica Mars is my girlfriend,” she sing-songs. Veronica swats her with the dishtowel, and Mac springs back, laughing. “You have no idea,” she says again, and the look in her eyes is making Veronica feel warm all over—some places more than others. Veronica looks back at her and bites her lip, feeling a thrill of triumph when Mac’s face flushes.

“I don’t have anything due at school today,” Veronica hears herself say. “And neither do you.”

“What? How do you know?”

“I asked you Monday night.”

“Oh. Right. So, what?”

Veronica quirks an eyebrow.

“Veronica Mars, are you suggesting we play hooky?”

“I’m suggesting,” Veronica says, closing the distance between them, “I take you back to bed and have my wicked way with you.” She presses her hips into Mac’s, snakes a hand around to the small of her back. Mac licks her lips again, and shivers; Veronica feels warmer yet.

“Is that so?” Mac would sound cocky if her voice weren’t shaking. Veronica nods and touches Mac’s mouth, runs a finger down to her chin, down the line of her throat, down in between her breasts.

“What do you say, Mackenzie? Feel like taking a personal day?”

“How personal are we talking?”

Veronica leans in and says, with her mouth an inch from Mac’s, “ _Intimately_ personal.”

Mac’s eyelids flutter and she sighs; Veronica feels her knees weaken. “Yeah,” says Mac. “Yeah, OK. Let’s go.” She grabs Veronica’s wrist and smiles. “Let’s _go_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Untitled" by the Smashing Pumpkins.
> 
> Originally posted to LiveJournal in April/August 2006. Archived at AO3 on 2019-03-11.


End file.
